


After The Passenger

by vocal_fries



Series: Subtext Becomes Text [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Anal Sex, Analingus, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Biting, Consent as a mechanism for talking dirty, DS9 S1E9 The Passenger, Explicit Consent, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, It's getting cute but it's also getting filthyyy, Kink, M/M, Porn With Plot, Power Play, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 15:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13978146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vocal_fries/pseuds/vocal_fries
Summary: In which Bashir reclaims his sense of agency after discovering his body was hijacked by Vantika in DS9 S1E9 "The Passenger." Garak is happy enough to help.





	After The Passenger

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately after S1E9. They're getting sweet, but mostly they're getting nasty. Explicit-plus might be a more apt rating for my work, so don't say I didn't warn you ;)

“Doctor, are you sure you don’t want to do this another evening? You appear to be elsewhere.”

Julian Bashir’s eyes shifted from staring into the middle distance over Elim Garak’s shoulder to focusing on the Cardassian’s face. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m here. What were you saying?”

The two men were seated perpendicular to one another at a small, square table in Bashir’s quarters. An open bottle of araqi sat in the center of the table. Garak’s glass was nearly empty, while Bashir’s sat untouched.

“Doctor, we can discuss this _novel_ of yours at a later date. Zamyatin will still be absurd and unpatriotic in a few days,” Garak responded drily. He was feeling exasperated by attempting to carry the conversation when it had been Bashir who’d recommended he read this histrionic, anti-statist drivel.

“First of all, _you’re_ absurd for even pretending to read Yevgeny Zamyatin as unpatriotic,” Bashir rolled his eyes, ignoring Garak’s smirk. “He was a true believer in socialism and wrote the novel as a critique of what the Soviet Union became when it abandoned its revolutionary ideals in favor of totalitarian measures. Secondly, stop calling me ‘doctor.’ It’s Julian. Please. And third, I’m sorry,” Bashir said, sighing and rubbing his face with both hands. “I thought hearing your ridiculous analysis of _We_ would get my mind off Vantika, but I can’t seem to focus.”

“Ridiculous?” Garak scoffed. “Really, _Julian_ , is that any way to speak to the _only_ man on the station who will read the rubbish you peddle?” He studied Bashir’s face when his barb landed without response. The man was beginning to glaze over again. Garak sighed. “Julian.”

Bashir met his eyes again, startled. “I’m sorry, Garak, I-”

“No need to apologize, Julian. I’ll see myself out,” Garak said with a polite nod, but he felt a hand catch his arm as he stood. He looked down at Bashir, who appeared to be weighing his next words. Garak waited.

After several more seconds, Bashir looked down, then spoke. “I killed someone.” He met Garak’s eyes again. “I don’t even remember it. But I shot someone with a phaser and he died.” Bashir’s face suggested he had more to say, but the doctor looked down again, silent.

Garak sat down stiffly, the younger man’s hand dropping away from his arm. Garak folded his hands on the table and regarded his new friend critically. Bashir looked contemplative, his face unusually opaque. The tailor sighed. “From what I hear, the man _Vantika_ shot while you were under his control was a criminal accomplice. Perhaps you oughtn’t feel too guilty.”

Bashir glanced at Garak again. “I _don’t_ feel guilty,” Bashir replied, eyes narrow. “That’s the thing. Vantika or not, my body killed another person, and even though I had no control of myself at the time, I think I should _feel_ guilty, but...” the young man trailed off.

“But you don’t, and you aren’t sure what that means for you?” Garak suggested. “Julian, you’re a very bright young man. Due to circumstances beyond your control, someone used you -- your body -- to commit a crime you don’t remember. But the victim of the crime was not innocent, and the killer is now dead.” Garak looked at Bashir and shrugged almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps all is well that ends well.”

Bashir stared at Garak, studying his face. _He’s even more beautiful when he’s serious like this than when he smiles_ , Garak thought. “Sounds a bit amoral to me,” Bashir said after a moment. A glint illuminated his eyes, and he cocked his head. “What does a tailor know about killing?”

Garak made a gesture of innocence with his hands, steeling his face against a smile at the younger man’s teasing. “Nothing at all, my dear, but even a simple tailor might from time to time mull over ethical arguments as a means of diversion. I do love to read in my free time.”

Half a wry smile twisted Bashir’s lips, and his eyes narrowed again as he peered sardonically through his eyelashes. “Yes, I suppose a simple tailor might.”

Garak felt the mood in the room shift, and for the first time since he’d arrived, he felt like he was on what Bashir insisted on calling a “date.” Picking up his glass, Garak took a drink as an excuse to sip the air. He detected a faint scent of human arousal. _Very faint. For now_. “I don’t think there is any profit in condemning yourself for an act you didn’t knowingly commit, don’t remember, and could not prevent, nor in attempting to feel guilty so as to prove your virtue.” Bashir sipped his own drink, finally, and nodded slightly, face still clouded. Garak continued, “As far as I can tell, your greatest sins are questionable taste in literature and fashion.”

Bashir glared over his araqi. “ _Thank you_ , Garak, for the new shirt,” he said with an eyeroll and slight gesture toward the simple maroon silk wrap shirt he wore. “But I’m genuinely incredulous that you hate _We_ this much. It’s the intellectual progenitor to the entire genre of the dystopian novel.” Garak opened his mouth to retort, but Bashir cut him off. “And how can _anyone_ as secretive as you are support a fictional state that engages in constant surveillance as a matter of course?”

“ _Secretive_?” Garak said, training the chuckle almost escaping his throat into a scandalized scoff. “I’m a modest man, my dear, but _secretive_? I’m an open book,” he shot back, spreading his hands to demonstrate his openness. When Bashir laughed in his face, Garak bit back a grin. _What a delight to argue over something other than a hemline_ , the Cardassian thought to himself, watching the human’s face grow more animated as he formulated his response.

Suddenly, Bashir’s face fell. He looked at Garak, eyes guarded. “When’s the last time we spoke?”

Garak understood. “Aside from your dropping by the shop a few hours ago to invite me over this evening, we last spoke at lunch, five days ago. And I believe we waved at one another in passing from opposite sides of the promenade three days ago.”

Bashir looked relieved. “I just- I realized that if I don’t remember what Vantika did while in control of me, there might be more to it than killing.” He blushed, then frowned deeply and sipped his drink.

Garak leaned forward and placed a hand next to Bashir’s, attempting to hold his attention without invading his space. Bashir looked up. “My dear, we haven’t known one another long, but I would know if you were not you,” Garak said, and he was surprised by the gentleness of his own voice. Bashir placed his hand on top of Garak’s, and the older man suppressed an involuntary shiver at the sudden feeling of heat radiating from the human’s palm.

“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” Bashir said. “I’m missing so much time that I can’t account for. I assume Vantika simply used me to conduct business, but it’s hard not to wonder.” He stared, eyes unfocused. He gripped Garak’s hand more tightly. “I was so sure it was Kajada. I had absolutely no idea someone was controlling me. That’s far more upsetting to me than Durg’s death. On some level, I know I didn’t kill him, because I had no choice. But the idea that I could lose time -- be utterly under someone else’s control -- and remember none of it? How am I supposed to accept that?”

Garak examined the doctor’s face. _So this is what he’s really been thinking about_. The guarded expression was gone, and he could see Bashir grappling with the immense vulnerability of having been under the control of another consciousness. Garak grasped Bashir’s hand between his own and pressed it gently, but he remained silent, watching. He had no words to offer, but the young human seemed to appreciate the reassuring contact. They sat quietly.

After a few minutes, Bashir broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, removing his hand from Garak’s grasp and picking up his drink. “You’re right. My head isn’t entirely here. This is turning out to be a real shitshow of a date. If you’d like to leave, and if you’d still like to see me another night soon, maybe that’s better,” he said with a self-deprecating half-smile, sipping his araqi. He smirked, fixing a flirtatious look at Garak. “I promise, I’m not usually such a magnificent fucking bummer.”

Garak chuckled good-naturedly. “My dear Julian, if I simply wanted to spend time with a cheerful bimbo, I wouldn’t have chosen you.”

Bashir laughed. “Well, I’m a known slut, so I suppose the cheeriness must be negotiable.” He smiled into Garak’s eyes over his drink, and the Cardassian’s blood raced.

 _I suppose we’re both easier than one might consider seemly_ , he thought, feeling his heartbeat pulse in the engorged flesh of his ajan. Garak returned the doctor’s smile, eyes hungry. “Well, a man’s got to prioritize,” he said, raising one brow ridge as he sipped his araqi.

“Garak?”

“Yes, Julian?”

“I don’t really want you to leave.”

“All right.”

“I want you to stay, and I still want to have sex. But I want to be in control. I have to feel in control tonight.”

“I see.”

“Is that okay with you?”

“Perhaps. What does being in control look like to you?”

“I-,” Bashir thought for a moment. “You can’t hold onto me. I mean, you can touch me, but you can’t hold me in place or pull my hair or leave bruises. I enjoy those things, and I enjoy it when you do those things to me, but I don’t want it tonight. Can you agree to that?”

Garak nodded. “Of course.”

“And I want to set the pace. Of everything. I don’t want to be teased. I want to decide when I come, and when you come.”

Garak nodded his assent, still watching. He could see Bashir was searching his face.

“I want to be on top. I want to ride you.”

Garak felt a rush of blood to his ajan and prUt, a sparkling cloud of electricity. He nodded, sure his pupils had dilated. “All right.”

Bashir waited for a moment, staring hard, but Garak suspected the young man was not seeing him. When Bashir’s eyes focused again, he asked, “Is there anything you want? Or uh, is there anything you _don’t_ want?”

“You won't bind my hands or tie me to anything. You won't blindfold me.” Garak waited, and Bashir nodded in agreement. “And I want you to sit on my face.”

Bashir’s eyes widened slightly, as did his pupils. He sipped his araqi, swallowed, and nodded. He spoke quietly. “Yes.”

Garak smiled, though he knew by now that to human eyes, there would be little to distinguish his expression from baring his teeth. “I want to rub your cock all over my face and suck each of your balls in turn. I want to taste you. I want to lick that gorgeous, tight asshole, and I want you to use my tongue until you’re ready to take your pleasure on my prUt.” His ajan felt slick and hot as he spoke, and Bashir’s breathing had become uneven.

“Yes,” the younger man said simply, rising from the table. Garak’s eyes glided from Bashir’s eyes to his obvious erection and back. Bashir took a half-step, placing himself squarely in Garak’s space.

Without hesitation, Garak leaned forward across the few inches remaining and pressed his face against the bulge in Bashir’s trousers, inhaling deeply. He felt warm fingers snake into his hair and hold him there for a moment, caressing the ridges on his skull. He mouthed gently at Bashir’s cock through the fabric. One of Bashir’s hands cradled Garak’s head and pulled him harder against his erection, and the other trailed down to squeeze the Cardassian’s exposed neck ridge. Garak gasped, and the flavor-scent of Bashir overpowered his senses. _Don’t lose yourself_ , a distant voice chided him through the din of his growing desire.

Bashir stepped back and smiled down at Garak. “I’ve never seen your hair messy. I like it.” Garak rolled his eyes, but he took Bashir’s extended hand and followed him into the bedroom.

Standing at the foot of the bed, Bashir silently undressed Garak. The older man found the act almost painfully intimate. He watched the human’s smooth forehead furrow slightly as he navigated the complicated series of hidden clasps that held the tailor’s clothing in place, and Garak’s heart stirred at the gentle, careful attention. Bashir had turned up the heat in his quarters before Garak arrived for their date, and he stood comfortably as he watched the doctor remove his own clothing. The man was so slim, so exotically smooth with thick patches of hair harboring aromas that made Garak want to devour him. But the physical vulnerability of this human body was endearing. Garak realized he felt protective of this thin-skinned, unridged, hot-blooded alien. _Be careful. With him. Around him._

When Bashir’s clothes had joined Garak’s in a neat pile on the floor, Bashir squared himself to Garak. He looked into the older man’s eyes for a long moment, then placed a hand on the scaled chest and stepped forward into his space. Garak held Bashir’s eyes as he yielded, backing up against the bed, sitting, lying back as the lithe body stayed with him, pursued him.

Bashir straddled Garak’s legs, still holding his eyes. Two fingers slipped between the scaled lips of Garak’s ajan, and the Cardassian inhaled sharply at the contact, but they were removed just as quickly. Garak gasped again, more quietly, as Bashir sucked the fingers, tasting Garak.

“Mmm,” Bashir purred, low. Garak watched, panting softly. _I may enjoy this more than anticipated_.

Then, smiling coyly, Bashir leaned forward, placing a hand on either side of Garak’s torso. He crawled slowly, all feline fluidity, over the body beneath him, and Garak let Bashir move his arms away from his sides to rest level with his head. The young man leaned down, breathing against Garak’s neck. Garak exhaled deeply, suppressing a moan. He could feel a smile against his neck, and then teeth snapped shut over the ridge where his shoulder sloped into his neck.

Garak gasped, and his ajan pulsed, aching, but he caught himself before he everted. He closed his eyes, focusing on keeping his prUt hidden away, but the teeth grinding back and forth into his ridge beneath the sucking of Bashir’s soft lips nearly undid him. _How did he figure that out already?_

Bashir switched sides, biting and grinding his teeth into Garak’s other ridge. Garak gasped again, the ache between his legs building. His prUt threatened to emerge unbidden, and he could feel the coolness of air against the hot, slick inner plane of his ajan’s scaly lips as his prUt pushed against them. Bashir’s teeth worked from shoulder to neck, and Garak breathed deeply, schooling the urge to grab Bashir and roll him over, bite matching marks into smooth human shoulders, devour him.

Bashir leaned back, seating himself on Garak’s thighs. Panting, his eyes swept over Garak’s body before meeting the older man’s eyes. “Why haven’t you everted? I can smell how turned on you are.”

Garak almost everted right then. _How does he know_ any _of this already?_ He shrugged, attempting a casual tone. “You’re in control. Tell me when.”

Bashir laughed. “Oh, I see. I’m in control, but you’re _really_ in control, aren’t you.” He narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. Garak took a deep, steadying breath. The young man nipped his clavicular ridge, and Garak gasped. Brachial ridge. A stifled moan. Jaw ridge. Panting, writhing. Bashir leaned back.

“I’m impressed, Garak. But that’s not the game tonight.” He shifted back, straddling Garak’s lower legs. Bashir bit down on a pectoral ridge, and Garak breathed raggedly. Garak could feel that he’d lose his mastery of himself very soon, but this _was_ the game tonight, and every night, and he was going to put forth an effort even when he’d agreed to lose.

Bashir looked at him, eyes smoldering with desire and determination, and Garak knew another moment of that look would undo him. Suddenly, he felt a vicious snap of teeth over his hip ridge, and at the same time, two fingers sank deep inside his throbbing, wet ajan, bracketing the base of his prUt. A low moan emerged from his body at the same moment as his prUt, and Bashir’s eyes flashed, smug with victory. He surveyed the older man beneath him.

 _Moaning?_ Garak scolded himself, but only for a moment. The focus of delaying eversion over, he could enjoy the remarkable state of arousal he found himself in. _I suppose moaning is a fair cover when I’m so wet that I want to beg this strange, beautiful boy to fuck me into oblivion just now_. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes, enjoying the acidic smell of his own arousal mixed with the muskier smell he now associated with Bashir. He looked up at Bashir, expectant but patient.

“Good,” Bashir said, voice low and thick. He crawled over Garak’s panting body, pausing to slip his wet fingers into Garak’s mouth. After Garak obediently licked his own wetness off Bashir’s fingers, the doctor kissed him. _What an exquisite creature_ , Garak thought, allowing this gorgeous boy’s tongue to invade his mouth.

Finally, Bashir straddled Garak’s face. Garak made good on his promises, rubbing his face adoringly against Bashir’s hard, leaking cock. He sucked each testicle, reverent, caressing the contours with his tongue. When Bashir edged forward a couple inches more, Garak’s tongue laved from scrotum to cleft. Bashir gasped, and as Garak fluttered his tongue against Bashir’s unusual alien orifice, he heard the younger man’s moan dissolve into a whimper.

“Yes, Garak, fuck. Eat my asshole,” he whispered, and Garak felt fingers tangle in his hair. Bashir gripped Garak’s hair and whimpered as the older man’s lips sucked at his sensitive flesh.

Garak let himself liquesce into the sensuality of the moment rather than dwell on what he might later perceive as indignity. Bashir’s cock rested lightly against his chufa, standing stiff enough that it bobbed when the young man’s hips jerked at the attentions of Garak’s skillful tongue and lips. Heat radiated from the organ, and Garak felt blissful as this heat penetrated him. This strange, beautiful alien boy ground his strange, beautiful alien orifice against Garak’s face, and Garak loved it. He sucked and licked with abandon, dizzy with arousal, his prUt twitching with the human’s more urgent whimpers.

“Fuck me with your tongue,” Bashir ordered, pulling Garak’s hair. Garak stifled a moan but obeyed, pushing his tongue through the tight ring of muscle.

Bashir cried out joyfully, bouncing lightly against Garak’s tongue, fingers pulling hard in Garak’s hair. “Fuck! Yes, Garak, fuck me! Oh fuck yes!”

Garak’s prUt ached, and he could feel his thighs had become slick as the wetness from his ajan spread with each small movement of his hips.

Bashir’s movements stopped, and he lifted his hips slightly, out of reach of Garak’s ministrations. “Shit, I’m so close to coming, and I still want to ride that fat prUt of yours,” he gasped. He took a deep breath, and Garak watched quietly, ignoring the throbbing between his own legs. The doctor reached for his glass of araqi, which he’d placed on the bedside table, and sipped. He pressed the cool glass against his sternum for a moment, against his neck, then set the glass back down. He took another deep, steadying breath. He caught Garak’s eye and laughed, suddenly bashful. “Okay, fuck it, I’m ready.”

Bashir straddled Garak’s thighs again and wrapped one hand around the older man’s prUt. He smiled, gliding his other hand through the ever-expanding slick of lubricant on Garak’s thighs and lower belly. “Mm. Excited for me to ride your big, thick prUt?”

Garak breathed. “Yes, Julian.”

“Say it.”

Garak knew his smile looked more wolfish than obedient. “I want to feel you ride me. I want to feel you clench around me and pleasure yourself on my prUt.”

Julian licked his lips. “I love how badly you want to feel me fuck myself on your fat prUt.” He pushed two fingers into Garak’s ajan. “I can feel how fucking wet you are.”

“Yes, Julian. I’m wet for you.”

Bashir’s breath hitched, and he locked eyes with Garak. Not breaking eye contact, he swirled his fingers inside Garak’s ajan, then rubbed them against his already slick asshole. Lifting his hips, he guided Garak’s prUt into him. Garak inhaled deeply and let out a long, shaky breath as he felt the young man envelope him, the muscle twitching deliciously around his length.

Eyes still locked, Bashir began to move, watching Garak’s face. Hazel eyes burned into Garak as Bashir’s body glided and squeezed, glided and squeezed. The Cardassian felt heat surround him, and he let himself luxuriate in the warmth, the rhythm, the stunning spectacle of Julian Bashir panting and moaning as he stroked Garak’s prUt with that luscious orifice.

Garak forced himself to focus, not wanting to reach orgasm before Bashir instructed. He studied the young man’s face, looking for signs of impending release but looking closely at Bashir as he claimed his pleasure did little for Garak’s control. _He’s simply marvelous_.

Above him, Bashir began swiveling his hips, and before he could stop himself, Garak loosed a low moan of pleasure. Bashir’s eyes widened as he whimpered a response. Still rolling his hips in a swivel, Bashir reached behind him and wiped his fingers through the wetness leaking from Garak’s ajan. Spreading it over his own cock, he held Garak’s eyes as he stroked himself. _Beautiful boy_.

“Garak, I’m going to come very soon,” Bashir panted. “I want you to come at the same time. Are you ready?”

Garak nodded tensely, watching.

“Good. I’m going to try to talk us through it,” Bashir said, gasping, “but I might not be all that coherent in another minute.” His laugh turned into a beautiful, high-pitched, breathy whimper, and Garak almost fell apart right then.

Bashir’s hips increased their pace. “You feel so fucking good inside me,” the man gasped, stroking himself, staring hard into Garak’s eyes. “You look beautiful lying there staring up at me. Fuck, I love riding your thick, hard prUt. I love watching your face while I ride you. You want to grab me and pin me down and and bite me and fuck me til I scream, but you’re being so good. So good for me,” Bashir groaned. “Okay, Garak, I want you to let go. I’m about to come, and I want you to let the feeling of me coming around you bring you off.”

Not breaking eye contact, Garak nodded. Seeing his assent, Bashir began moaning and whimpering with abandon, verbal warnings of his impending orgasm blending with his ragged breathing. Garak watched him stroke the length of his beautiful alien cock, swirling his palm over the flared head each time he came to it. _Noted_ , was Garak’s last coherent thought before the sounds emanating from the doctor reached their crescendo, before he felt the body enveloping him squeeze with new urgency as Bashir pulsed and twitched around his prUt, before slim hands grasped his pectoral ridges with an iron grip, before his vision turned blue and “Julian” passed his lips in a hiss incomprehensible to human ears, before his own powerful orgasm wracked his supine body. True to his promise, Garak did not grab the young man whose semen was splattering his chest and face, instead digging fingers deep into the firm mattress beneath.

Bashir collapsed, body heaving and shaking. He yelped, shifted his hips to allow Garak’s still-engorged prUt to slip from inside him, and settled back down, still on top of the Cardassian, his face pressed against Garak’s chest between his chula and throat. Garak felt a moment of restriction but reminded himself how bonelessly pliant the doctor’s body felt now. _It’s okay. I could move him._ The wave of panic receded.

As his breathing slowed, Garak thought idly about how much of Bashir’s semen had landed on the part of his chest where the man’s face rested now. Garak’s leg was wedged between Bashir’s, and he felt semen dribbling out of Bashir’s gorgeous orifice, pooling on his own thigh. He smirked to himself. Garak usually preferred to clean up quickly after sex, before any fluids could cool and congeal, but he lay still, appreciating the exquisite filth of the moment after such a cleansing experience. He stroked Bashir’s hair lightly with one hand, catching his breath.

After a few minutes, Bashir shifted sideways, keeping a leg and an arm across Garak. Garak realized when he could see Bashir’s face that the man’s eyes were red and wet. “My dear, are you all right?” he said, concerned.

Bashir shook his head dismissively. “I’m fine. I mean, uh-” He laughed. “At first, I just put my face right where my cum was, and it burned my eye,” he said, blushing. “But then once my eyes were watering, I could really _feel_ this huge rush of relief that I experienced when I came, and I let myself cry a little.” He looked at Garak, suddenly embarrassed. He blushed more deeply. “I’m sorry. I’m still learning Cardassian sexual mores, but I’m sure crying after sex isn’t ideal. Sorry.”

Garak wiped a drop of semen off the young man’s cheek, feeling very protective of this messy, tear-stained, fragile, audacious human. “My dear.” He let the words hang, trying to temper the fond look he couldn’t help but bestow upon the young man in front of him. “I’m simply concerned about your well-being. If tears are part of your process of completion tonight, that’s perfectly all right.”

“Still. This is a pretty weird fourth date. But thank you.” Bashir smiled at Garak, who pressed his chufa against the human’s smooth forehead. When he drew back, he looked closely at Bashir’s face. He looked as vulnerable as he had earlier, Garak noted, but instead of struggling under the weight of it, Bashir seemed to have wrapped it around him, as flattering and perfectly suited to him as the maroon silk shirt on the floor.

“You’re very welcome, my dear,” Garak responded, quiet.

When Garak got up to leave several minutes later, Bashir was nearly asleep. After cleaning himself in the bathroom, Garak brought a hot towel back to the bed. He gently cleaned the younger man’s face and chest, then gingerly wiped his own blueish semen from between the human’s thighs. Bashir was languid, compliant, half-asleep, smiling.

Garak studied him a moment longer, standing to leave. Bashir woke enough to pull Garak’s hand to his face and press a kiss to the palm, smile at him, mumble a thank you, and fall asleep.

 _He’s so precious, and he trusts me so much. What a fool_.


End file.
